


Shoot Me Twice with Loves Unerring Bullet

by NDKiwi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 14:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18593503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NDKiwi/pseuds/NDKiwi
Summary: John is injured on case and it causes he and Sherlock to re-evaluate everything they thought they knew about their feelings.





	Shoot Me Twice with Loves Unerring Bullet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shcrlockholmcs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shcrlockholmcs/gifts).



> This was supposed to be a smutty PWP but plot snuck in and dragged the feels with it. It is written for Shcrlockholmcs who asked for anything and i took that and ran with it. And thanks to my beta PuffleLock

The shot came out of nowhere. They hadn't even seen a gun but there it was, muzzle flash illuminating the dark of the alleyway, the sound deafening. Sherlock shifted and leaned sideways just enough for the bullet to miss him by millimeters, only to hear a grunt of pain behind him. As he spun around, all thoughts of the criminal and his own safety disappeared. All he saw was John clutching at his left shoulder, blood blossoming from between his fingers as he fell back against the wall and slid down to the damp, litter-strew ground. The sound of the sirens in the distance and the general cacophony of the busy Hackney borough bled away and all Sherlock could hear was his own heartbeat.

“John! John?!” He screamed as he dropped to his knees in a puddle in front of his friend. He reached out and pressed a hand to the one of John's that covered the wound. “Let me apply pressure. You talk to me. Please talk to me…” He plead as he brushed John's hand away and felt the hot blood flow sluggishly against his own palm.

“Sherlock...I’m fine. I mean it hurts like hell but it’s not that bad.” John tried to argue with him but he was winded. He knew it was adrenaline keeping the pain at bay and it would return with a vengeance soon enough. He took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on Sherlock. He had never seen him panic like this. Well, not since the pool all those years ago, when John had been strapped to a bomb by Moriarty. “Sherlock, are you ok? Did you get hit at all?” He asked, eyes skimming his bent frame to look for blood, seeing none.

“No. Of course not. Idiot couldn’t hit the broad side of a double-decker. Why didn’t I see he had a gun? Why didn’t I know?” He began to chastise himself as the outside world filtered in and he heard fast approaching footsteps. Sherlock whipped his head around, prepared to protect John at all costs, when he saw Lestrade and a few other officers running up, an ambulance stopping at the mouth of the alley.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell happened? I told you to wait for us!” Lestrade chastised them both as paramedics hurried over and pushed Sherlock out of the way so they could get to John.

“He wasn’t dangerous. I thought I could get him to give up and come with us. He hadn’t been violent in the past and I…”

“You were wrong Sherlock. You couldn’t wait and look what happened! It could have been so much worse.” Lestrade ran a hand through his mussed pewter hair and straightened his disheveled tie. “We got more information before you went traipsing off, half-cocked.”

“I…I…” Sherlock stammered as he was shunted out of the way again for the stretcher. He watched them load John carefully on it and knew it must be worse than he was letting on because normally John would be complaining about being manhandled and demanding he could care for himself. He tuned Lestrade out to focus on John being put in the ambulance. “Where are you taking him?” He called to the paramedics.

“Homerton.” The woman replied as she climbed in. Sherlock moved to follow and join her but was stopped by Lestrade's hand gripping his arm.

“Let me go!” He demanded but Lestrade shook his head.

“No. Not this time Sherlock. This is serious and you need to come with me and give a statement. I need to know what happened and then you can go to John.” He said firmly. “Come on. I’ve got my unmarked ‘round the corner. You can even have a smoke if you need. I sure as hell do.” Sherlock was dragged to Lestrade's car, too panicked to complain much and soon they were at Scotland Yard.

“It turns out that the suspect was running women from his mother's basement. He was a rough-handed pimp that pretended to care. Has several alias’ we found and a rap sheet as long as my leg. Extortion, GBH, weapons offenses. Not to mention, attempted murder and the prostitution ring. You sure as hell know how to pick ‘em. Lucky you caught him alone. You could both be dead.” Lestrade exclaimed after giving Sherlock the rundown and showing him everything. “And he was caught, by the way. Just a few blocks west from your altercation. I thought you were getting better Sherlock. Not getting John shot.”

Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth as he took all the information in as quickly as possible. Why hadn’t he waited? Something had felt off but he needed to show off tonight for John. He wouldn't admit that since his return he felt he needed to keep things exciting for fear John might get bored and leave or find something better. Someone better. He shook his head to get rid of the thoughts and the image of a bloody and broken John at his feet. He stood and shut the case file. 

“I...I am truly sorry, Detective. I am glad he was apprehended but I really must get to the hospital. Get to John.” Turning, he placed a hand on the knob and paused, “I don’t say it enough, or ever really, but you are rather competent at your job. I see what keeps my brother’s interest in you peaked.” And he was gone; out the door and flagging a cab before anyone could protest.

He pressed his forehead to the cool glass as he replayed the night, a few days back, before this case had begun. . They had been sitting in the flat, discussing how insufferable Mrs. Hudson had become since Mrs. Turner's married ones had adopted a little girl. They were laughing and it felt like old times. John doubled over on the sofa, Sherlock's eyes crinkling as they leaned into each other. And then their eyes had met; John’s steely eyes alight with mirth, Sherlocks viridis ones sparkling with joy. And then the space between them began to close. Breaths became shallow, short, shared. And just as noses brushed and eyelids drooped, Lestrade was bumbling up the stairs and shouting about missing women and rare flowers. They jumped apart; cheeks pink, eyes averted. And then the case took over and here they were now. Sherlock was speeding half-way across London and John was laying in a hospital in god knows what condition. Sherlock sighed but took out his phone to check for any messages about John. Nothing. Panic began to set in as he tossed money to the driver and clamored out of the cab when they arrived. He barged up to the admitting desk.

“John Watson. Where did they take him? I’m his emergency contact and I have not been contacted at all! What kind of a place is this?” He shouted at the harried-looking nurse behind the desk. The waiting room full of people went virtually silent at his tirade but he didn’t care. John was here somewhere, hurt, alone, and Sherlock needed to be by his side. Before she could answer, someone cleared their throat behind him. He knew that unctuous sound anywhere. “Mycroft…”

“Stop berating the poor woman, Sherlock. She isn't the reason Dr. Watson is here. I believe that is down to you.” Mycroft chastised with a raised eyebrow. “Come with me.” He turned and began to walk towards the bank of lifts down the hall, not waiting to see if Sherlock followed him.

Hurrying on long legs to catch his obnoxious brother, Sherlock’s frown deepened. “What are you doing here anyway? Don't you have a government to overthrow or something?” He sneered as they entered the lift, the look on both their faces enough to scare off the candy striper junior volunteer that was going to join them.

Mycroft pushed the button for the second floor and picked off an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve before answering. “I was informed of the incident immediately by Detective Lestrade and told you would be at the Yard for some time. I decided it was for both our interests that someone be here to grease the wheels for John’s care.”

Sherlock felt even more guilty now. He hadn’t been there and Mycroft had. Damn the whole shitty situation. “And what do we know? Will he be out soon?” He asked, more subdued than he had been as they stepped out and headed towards an empty room on the far side of the floor. Sherlock looked around in confusion. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

“Oh stop being overly dramatic, Sherlock. It's unbecoming. I have not done anything aside from making sure he has the best care available. According to the doctor on call, the bullet was stopped in the knot of scar tissue he already has from his previous injury. They have taken him to surgery to remove it easier and avoid any further nerve damage, ” he explained in an emotionless, monotone voice; the one he reserved for telling people things he knew they didn’t want to hear. Unpleasantness and the like. Mycroft did care in this situation though. This involved Sherlock and although many thought he was made of ice inside and out, he cared deeply for his brother and he knew how his brother cared for John. “They said it should take a few hours and he will be brought here from recovery. Any time now I would assume.” He remarked as he glanced at his watch.

Sherlock took it all in and dropped into the hard blue plastic chair by the window that faced the open door to the hallway. He wanted to be the first person John saw when he was brought in. He would rather be barging his way in and overseeing his surgery, but knew this was a situation he needed to leave to the professionals. “You can leave any time, brother.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and settled a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing. He said nothing more before leaving quietly. He had done what he could and knew he had to go before either of them said or did something they would regret.

Sherlock watched his brother’s umbrella and brogues disappear around the corner before he let his worry be written on his face. This was more serious than he had expected and what if...no. He refused to go to the “what if" stage. John was a fighter. He was the strongest, most stubborn man Sherlock knew and if anyone would come through this, it would be him. After a few deep breaths and a quick trip to the sink to splash his face with water, he decided it would pass the time more quickly to retreat into his mind palace. He had been meaning to sort through John’s room and expand it anyway. No time like the present. He moved to lay on the cold tile floor, fingers steepled under his chin, ankles crossed and eyes closed and went to work. 

The nurse that wheeled John in an hour later was startled to find him there, eyes darting back and forth rapidly under his eyelids. John, barely out of anesthesia, just laughed hoarsely. “Don't worry about him. He’s fine. He will come ‘round when he’s ready, ” he explained as she helped him into the bed, adjusting the rails and his pillows.

“Well, press the call button if you need anything. I'll be back in an hour to help you use the loo and to bring you some tea and toast,” the woman said before taking the wheelchair and leaving them alone.

John glanced over at Sherlock again with a smile before he settled back against his pillows, arm in a sling and pain killers coursing through his veins and dozed off. It was nearly forty-five minutes later when Sherlock shut the door to John’s new wing and stepped out of his mind palace. He blinked several times and sat up, surprised to see John sleeping in the hospital bed. He scrambled to his feet and hurried to the side of the bed. He didn't want to wake him so he took in his appearance with a heavy weight in his stomach. His eyes had shadows under them and his face was still pale. His left arm was strapped to his chest in a sling to stabilize it and his shoulder was heavily bandaged. Guilt burned hot in Sherlock’s veins as he pulled the chair up beside the bed as quietly as he could. His fault. This was all his fault. He reached for John’s free hand when the nurse knocked and stepped in with a food tray. He dropped his hands into his lap again.

“Oh, Hello. You must be Sherlock. Mr. Watson asked for you when he came out of sedation.” She smiled warmly at him as she checked the IV. “Mr. Watson? John? I need you to wake up now. I have tea and toast and I need you to try to use the toilet for me.” She called softly.

Johns eyes fluttered open and he groaned, “I don’t need to yet. Maybe after the tea.” He croaked out, throat a bit sore from the intubation tube. 

“Alright. Just push the call button when you are ready.” She agreed and set the tray on the sliding table and left them alone again.

John swallowed and motioned for the ice water glass with a straw and Sherlock lifted it to his dry lips. John sipped it slowly and then sat back, looking over at Sherlock with a half smile. “Don’t look at me like that. I'm fine. Just a precaution they said. No more damage. Not much more than a flesh wound, to be honest.” He explained, trying to calm Sherlock down.

“Don’t do that John. Don’t downplay the seriousness of the situation. I was reckless and got you shot. Had it been lower or to the left…”

“But it wasn't. Like you said, guy couldn’t hit the broad side of a double-decker. Now stop. This isn't your fault. The only person at fault is the asshole who shot me. Did they get him, by the way?” John inquired as he pushed the button to lift the bed into a better sitting position.

“Yeah.” Sherlock nodded and swallowed. “They got him. Apparently he was much worse than I figured.” He told John everything Lestrade had told him and what he had gleaned from the police file as he helped John eat his toast and drink his tea. He stole a few sips and a corner of his toast as he talked, causing John to smile to himself.

“What a maniac. Good thing he’s behind bars now.” John commented after hearing it all. He coughed then, a sharp pain radiating in his shoulder and winced. “I really want to be home. I hate being in this place. I am the epitome of ‘doctors make the worst patients.’ I’m hoping they will let me go after I, well, go.” He shrugged. “Won’t hurt to try.” He pushed the call button and waited. “I hate this part,” he admitted as the nurse entered again.

“All ready to try to go for me?” She asked as he unhooked the monitors from his chest and finger and lowered the bedrail on John's right side. Sherlock moved out of the way as she wrapped an arm around John’s waist and helped him to his feet, her free hand pulling the IV pole beside them. Sherlock purposely turned to look out the window into the pink sunrise and not at John’s bare behind. He heard the nurse talking to John softly and then stepping out and waiting by the door for him to finish. It was a few minutes before they heard the sound of John urinating then washing his free hand and opening the door. She helped him back to the bed and once he was all settled, Sherlock took his seat again. “Everything seems to be looking good.”

“When can I get out of here? I am a doctor and can care for myself. Plus, my friend here can help me if I need it.” John said firmly.

“I'll check with the doctor but I know we had instructions that we should get you home as soon as possible. Give me a few minutes and I'll find out.” She smiled at them both and left again.

“I know why they do all this but sometimes I hate bloody hospital bureaucracy.” John huffed. “Do I have clothes here? Clean ones?”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “Honestly, I have no idea. I am sorry. I didn’t think…” Just then his phone dinged. He pulled it out and checked it,

Fresh clothes in the closet. All his personal items as well. Car will be waiting to take you back to Baker Street after release. -M

Sherlocked sighed in annoyance but also relief. He stood and went to the closet and pulled out Johns old suitcase and brought it over. He opened it to find John's favorite pyjamas and a jacket. Something easy to get on and off with the sling. 

“My brother is useful on occasion.” He admitted begrudgingly. “Very rarely though. Also, I was going to suggest you take my room while you heal so you don’t have to traverse the stairs for the bathroom.”

“Really? I am ok with using my own room.” John argued, taken by surprise at the offer. Sherlock was very protective of his private space.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “If I wasn’t fine with it, I would not have offered.”

“Alright. Yeah. Ok. Thanks.” John gave him another lopsided smile as the door opened after a soft knock and the nurse came back with a clipboard and gloves.

“Well I have good news. The doc says you can go. I'll get your IV out and you will sign the discharge papers. Then while you wait for your prescriptions, you can get dressed.” She began to work on the IV. “Now you will need physical therapy as soon as your wound has healed some. You will get a follow up call in about a week to set that up. Painkillers no more than every six hours. If you don't need them, don't take them. No drinking or operating heavy machinery and no making major decisions for the next twenty-four hours due to the anesthesia.” She explained. 

“He is a doctor, not your average idiot that comes in.” Sherlock commented scathingly and the nurse turned to him and gave him a very dirty look.

“And doctors are the ones that ignore all the rules when it pertains to them specifically.” She shot back.

“Now now. Fight nice kids. She has a point. Thank you for everything. And Sherlock, stop.” That was all John had to say as he signed the papers and the nurse left to get his pills. “Now help me get out of this bloody gown and into my clothes.” He turned and dropped his legs over the side of the bed. Sherlock reached around him to untie the gown and pull it off carefully. There was John, naked in front of him, and Sherlock didn't care. Not right now. He eased his underpants up his legs and over his hips when John stood. Next came the dark blue bottoms and then the top. That was more difficult to maneuver but they managed. The nurse came in one last time to bring John his pills as Sherlock was knelt at his feet putting on his shoes. He thanked her and stood, grumpily getting into the wheelchair again.

“Hospital policy. Sorry.” She began to wheel him out as Sherlock followed with the case. He helped John into the waiting sedan. 

“Thank you. Sorry for being so abrupt. Sometimes I forget how to interact with people properly and John corrects me.” Sherlock shook the nurse’s hand.

“Quite alright. I've been treated much worse by people whose loved ones are ill. Take care of him, Mr. Holmes.” The nurse smiled and left a shocked Sherlock behind as she went back inside. A few moments later. he climbed in beside John in the back seat. 

“Take us home please. Unless, do we have any groceries or essentials at home?” He asked John.

“I doubt it. We didn’t have much before the case so unless it magically appeared, we may need to stop at the shops.” Johns replied with exhaustion in his voice. He just wanted to get home. He hadn’t slept much the last few days and the sun was steadily climbing in the sky on another day.

Sherlock could see the tiredness etched in every inch of Johns body. “Forget it. Home. I will make use of my brothers new found kindness once more.” He pulled out his phone and began to type.

Have one of your hench people go to the shops for us later this morning. We need groceries. All the essentials. And don't forget a banoffee pie. Make sure they are quiet when they arrive. John will be sleeping. -SH

Barely a minute went by after hitting send when there was a reply.

It has already been taken care of, brother mine. I took the liberty of stocking your larder while you were at the hospital. Tell the good doctor to get well soon. -M

“Insufferable prick.” Sherlock huffed. “He already had it done. I hate him but sometimes he does make things easier.”

“You don't hate him any more than I do but yes, sometimes he is a giant prick.” John let out a laugh and leaned into Sherlock with his good shoulder. Sherlock smiled at this, relieved to hear him laughing again, relieved to have his warmth beside him and not on the cold ground in a dark alley, bleeding out. 

“It’s been a hell of a night.” Sherlock said as he relaxed into the seat again. 

“That’s the understatement of the year.” John chuckled, tilting his head to lay on Sherlocks shoulder. Suddenly Sherlock was taken back to a few nights before in the sitting room again. He had wondered if John had forgotten or simply didn’t want to talk about it, but here they were. Close. In each other’s space again and it didn’t feel strained or awkward. Tentatively, he reached out to lace his fingers between those of John’s free hand and his heart pounded in his chest as his hand was equally wrapped in John’s.

“I...I don’t have the adequate words to tell you how relieved I am that you are safe and we are going home.” He said softly, turning his nose into John’s hair and breathing in his scent, mixed with the antiseptic smell of the hospital.

“So am I. When I was in the ambulance, I tried not to picture what would have happened if you hadn’t gotten out of the way in time and it would have been you that were shot.” John’s voice was low and edged with fear. He had thought about Sherlock on the pavement, bloodied and still. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, who returned the pressure.

“But I moved. I’m ok. You are almost ok. I...I will never leave you again.” He promised. “And from now on, I will be more careful. Take fewer risks. Take safer cases.” Anything to keep John safe.

“Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t even think about it.” John lifted his head to look Sherlock in the eye. “I know the risks of what we do and we help people. We save lives and catch the bad people. You brilliant man, you are a powerhouse that cannot be given boundaries or limits, even self-imposed, or you will not be able to be yourself and everyone will suffer because of it.” He spoke with such ferocity that Sherlock could have sworn he saw fire in his eyes.

“As long as you are by my side, I can never go wrong. It seems, as I’ve said before, I’d be lost without my blogger.” He smiled at him.

“And I’d be bored without my Consulting Detective.” John grinned back. They relaxed again in companionable silence until they pulled up to the kerb outside 221b Baker Street. Sherlock hopped out and hurried around to help John out. Mrs. Hudson was already opening the door when they approached.

“I heard what happened dears. John you need to be more careful. Now I've changed the sheets on Sherlock's bed and turned them down for you, John. I’ve also left fresh lemon and blueberry scones and a fresh pot of tea out on the coffee table so you can have a bite before you go to bed. Now, I'm not your housekeeper, mind, but just this once I thought you could use the help. Just call down if you need anything else and there will be a steak and kidney pie ready around seven for dinner, if you feel peckish.” She rambled on as she let them in and shut the door behind them. 

“Ta, Mrs. Hudson,” was all John could manage without laughing as Sherlock held him with one arm around his waist as the nurse had done and helped him up to the flat where he sat him on the sofa. He carefully removed John’s shoes, then his jacket, hanging it up.

“Do you want tea and scones or would you rather I just take you to bed?”asked Sherlock and then he caught sight of the look on John's face. “What?”

“Do you realize what you just said?” John said and bit his lip to stop the laughter again. Sherlock looked utterly confused and then realization dawned across his expressive face.

“I didn’t mean...I just meant...I meant get you in bed. I mean...damn. I just meant…”. Sherlock was suddenly flustered and stammered and fell over his own words.

John decided to help him out. “I know what you meant. It’s ok, you idiot. No, I don’t want anything to eat or drink. I would love to go to bed because I am absolutely knackered. But I have one request.”

“Of course. Anything.” Sherlock nodded eagerly. He would do anything for John and to make him happy.

“Will you lay with me? Just to sleep is all I mean but...well I don't want to be alone and I need to know you are safe and not...not dead.” He hoped Sherlock would understand and not think him weak.

Sherlock sat down carefully beside him on the sofa. “Of course. I think I would benefit from that arrangement as well. Let’s go to bed then.” He stood again and helped John up. They walked through the kitchen and down the short hall to his room. He helped John into the far side of the bed, knowing that’s the side he prefered, and fluffed the pillows behind him. He moved to his dresser to pull out his pyjamas that consisted of a pair of black cotton bottoms and, embarrassingly, one of John's of tan uniform shirts he had nicked before he went away to remind him of home. He kept his back towards John as he removed his suit, draping the pieces over the back of the chair under his window. He didn’t wear underpants under his suits because it broke the line of the pants and tended to irritate his sensitive skin as he chased after criminals. He heard John’s sharp intake of breath as he stood there naked and felt a flush burn on his face as he dressed slowly. When he turned, he saw his own blush mirrored on John's face and bit his own bottom lip.

He crossed the room again and crawled into his side of the bed and pulled the covers up over them both. He lay on his left side, facing John who was on his right side facing him. He reached between them and linked their fingers together again. “Goodnight John. If you need anything, wake me.”

“Of course. Sleep well.” John replied as he lay, surrounded in the decadent scent that was so very Sherlock. He fell asleep first, the exhaustion of his trauma and the last few hard days enveloping him nearly immediately. Sherlock lay and watched him for quite some time. He finally succumbed to sleep as the sun reached its zenith, never letting go of John's hand.

 

—————————————

 

It took a few weeks for John to finally get rid of the sling. Sherlock had helped him around the flat, including getting dressed and shaving, and had stayed in most days with only cold cases to work on. He wanted, no, no he needed to be there for John. He found that as long as he was busy with him, he didn’t fall prey to his dark days or boredom. They enjoyed quiet meals of takeaway and Mrs. Hudson's cooking and watched shit telly; Sherlock often deducing the ending of shows and movies and even the private lives of the actors in them, much to the delight of John. They laughed often, sat close and shared a bed every night. Nothing more happened and no further discussion was had about what seemed to be between them but it felt natural. Sherlock couldn’t remember a time he felt more peaceful, more content.

He was hunched over his microscope inspecting cross sections of various strains of zinnias on a rather dreary Tuesday when John entered the flat in a bit of a whirlwind. He was soaked through from a sudden downpour he had been caught in after exiting Baker Street Station. He had insisted he go to his final doctor's appointment alone. “Damnable unpredictable London weather.” He swore under his breath as Sherlock approached to help him get his jacket off only to find he had already done it.

“Ah. Your bandages and sling are gone. I take it the wound is healed properly then?” commented Sherlock, trying to hide the disappointment he felt. He was no longer needed. What would this mean?

“Brilliant deduction as always Sherlock.” John snapped out, before seeing his face and softening. “Sorry. Just bloody soaking and freezing. Yes. Everything looks good he said and no infection. Glad to be rid of it, if I’m honest.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding. “An independent man like yourself does dislike having to rely on the help of others. You really should get out of those wet clothes though and warm up. There is a chill and it won’t do for you to get sick so soon after your injury. I’ll get a fire going and make tea.”

“Ta. That’s a great idea. A shower sounds amazing too and then maybe we can watch the new Doctor Who episode.” He suggested, reaching out with a smile to squeeze Sherlocks arm as he passed and headed to what had quickly become their room, glancing back once to flash a smile. Sherlock watched him go with a tiny spark of excitement he couldn’t explain burning in his belly. He quickly cleared the table of his experiment and got a roaring fire going to stave off the cold. He heard the shower start and tried not to picture John in there, steam swirling around him as the water rolled down his body. He swallowed hard and moved quickly to change into his pyjamas and maroon dressing gown before settling in his place on the right side of the sofa to wait for John. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, tapped his toe on the floor and bounced his knee nervously. He even debated on getting up and moving to the chair but stopped as he heard the bathroom door open. 

He could see a bit of the released steam unfurl around the corner of the kitchen and then out stepped the figure of John Watson, clad only in a bath towel. The blue terry cloth was slung low on his hips, his hair stood at all directions, droplets of water still glistened on random strands and spattered across his chest interwoven with a smattering of golden hair. His gaze paused a moment on the small mass of scar tissue on his shoulder but moved past it quickly. Sherlock was frozen in place. Sure, he had seen John in a towel before but now...now it seemed like so much more. He let his eyes take all of him in from the flop of hair to the still toned abdomen all the way down to his strong legs. 

Sherlock stood slowly, his tongue peeking out between his lips, and caught Johns eyes. They were alight with pleasure, crinkled at the corners from the lopsided smirk he was giving Sherlock. 

“Finally cottoned on, did we?” came John’s steady voice. 

“P-pardon me?” Sherlock said with a slightly confused tilt of his head. His brain must be slowing down now that all the blood in his body was rushing to a very different appendage because he had no idea what John meant.

John chuckled low in his throat and took a few steps closer to Sherlock. “I thought you might never catch up. I guess I was too subtle in my invitation to join me in the shower. Unless…” he bit his bottom lip and looked up at Sherlock through his lashes. “Unless I was wrong about where this was going to go once I got better. There is no pressure for anything unless you want it.” 

“No...No. I mean yes. Of course…”. Sherlock stuttered out as his heart thudded in his chest so hard he was sure the neighbors could hear it. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I didn’t know if you wanted anything more than what we had been doing. We never really talked about it.”

“Well, consider this us talking. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. For far longer than either of us could probably imagine.” John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand and lay it on his damp chest, just over his heart. “This is and has been yours for quite some time and I want the world to know, but I figured you should know first. You are the reason I am alive. From the first time you brushed my hand and took my phone, we have been inexorably linked. It may sound cliche, but we have wasted too much time already and these last three weeks have given me more than I ever dreamed possible. But now,” He chuckled, “I want everything you are willing to give me.” 

John’s words made Sherlock’s breath catch in his lungs. No one had ever said things like this to him and meant it. He swallowed hard and sniffled as he felt a hot tear break free and slip down his face. “I am never at a loss for words, John. But you make me unsure that I carry the proper vocabulary to full express the depth of my love and affection for you.” He paused and took John's hand to lay on his own chest, echoing what John had done. “My heart is yours and yours alone. Even when I was...gone...it stayed here with you, broken but determined to keep you safe. I am not a good man and I am very much an insufferable know-it-all at the best of times but with you, I know that it is ok. I can be myself. You say I am your reason for being alive, but you have it backwards. You have saved me in more ways than you really can ever know. I love you John. Always. Now if you don’t kiss me soon, I fear I may explode. Or my bottoms will at least.” He quipped with a smile.

“I thought you would never ask.” John reached up with his free hand and cupped the nape of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down, pressing their lips together as both their eyes slid shut. It wasn’t fireworks and they didn’t hear choirs of angels singing. It just felt right. Sherlock parted his lips to allow John entrance and a moan followed as their tongues brushed. A tilt of his head allowed him to deepen the kiss and cup John's face in both hands. They broke apart, foreheads resting against each other, and Sherlock just smiled. 

“That was much better than what I expected,” remarked Sherlock as his thumbs stroked John’s stubbly cheeks. He lifted his head to look into his eyes again. He could see their future there and it filled him with hope. “Thank you John.”

“No need to thank me. I’ve wanted to do that for a long time. To be quite honest, I used to fantasize about those lips and how this would feel.” John’s fingers slid up into the soft curls at the back of Sherlock's head and tugged gently. This elicited a soft moan from Sherlock that was unexpected.

“Oh…” came the soft breath and Sherlock's face turned a rosy colour. “S-sorry.”

“Don't be. I liked it and it seems you did too. Something to remember for later. Now can you tell me something honestly? Do you have any experience in this area?” John questioned.

Sherlock barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “Contrary to what my brother inferred, I am not a blushing virgin. Blushing, yes. Virgin, no. I don’t have a lot of experience, that is true, but that just means I get to learn with you. And that I look forward to, but please be patient. I don't exactly know what will happen or how I will react. The last time I was intimate I was, well, I was high.” It was hard to admit that but John already knew his past.

“I understand. I will never pressure you and if anything becomes too much, you just tell me and we stop. I meant it when I said I only want what you are willing to give.” John lifted Sherlock’s hands and kissed the knuckles and then the palms. “Now come on. I would really like to take you to bed and kiss some more.” He turned, their hands clasped, and they headed to their room. 

As the door clicked shut behind them, Sherlock thought about was how much had changed since that single bullet tore down all their walls. He had never believed in fate but every moment with John taught him something new and he did love to learn. For the first time, Sherlock thought about the future.

“What do you think about bees, John?”


End file.
